The calling of oneself as ‘Ty’ is not based on reality, but if it were so, ____ would be had. In this manner, no pretense of coherence is claimed.  It has been determined that 'the task of writing the novel'––simply referred to as 'it' (unless otherwise indicated)––is considered to be of a higher level of significance than what the individual, who is the author of these words, feels capable of attempting to undertake once again. And the rest. A peace unlike any other shall be attained. Her touch is longed for by me. The quieting of one's mind shall permit them to serve as a conduit for the Transcendent. Insothir the ____ comes. An apology is given for all of it. The realization, born out of necessity rather than a genuine Eureka moment, is that from the perspective of the writer, they appear to be the only person who is awake, leading to the belief that it must be an internal processing error. Perhaps the writer is not the only one who is not experiencing life in a state of Unconscious existence, resulting in the conclusion that all others must be in a state of awareness and the writer must be artificially created. This hyper-polarizing black/white take-all didacticism is birthed either by the circumstances of modernity or by the lack of discipline being sublimated through the ego, but the cause is not specified.

Perhaps it is the disorder so many demand of mental organisms of a realm that causes individual perceptions to absorb this universal average, and skew rational ideas, as they feign mental disorder in order to achieve conformity, but possess nothing but a trove of already hatched conceptualizations––they are part of the expansion, both of time, and even of our individual existence. Note: I desire my own novel, but I wish to tkk my WIP w/ a more native voice, and all the new words so fabricated would only add to the nature/nature of my single medium, the textual realm. Whatever order, idea, word-sequences I might employ in the fanciful realm of my mind would be alone, selfishly untouched, experientially out of alignment w/ what others may devise. This shall never occur. Thus, it shall not matter. If anyone is disturbed or challenged they should write another manuscript, and state their reasons for failing to finish. Exempli gratia, I cannot watch fantasy; there is no purpose. I have utterly failed to write original anything of value. Tho, on the contrary, I would like to emphasize the following: 1. A lot of people watch and enjoy fantasy. 2. All manuscripts can be original if they are focused on what they are supposed to be about (id est, a story about characters who travel thru a series of imaginary worlds).

Especially since the creation and development of time, space, distance, and consciousness. That is the meaning of life, and the meaning of fantasy. So, if you are trying to think of a modern equivalent of the 'vacant lot,' it is not a faceless, nameless place. It is an idea that has been given a name, and it is something that exists because we have created it thru our collective imagination.

⁂

Further Reading:

LAST MINUTE EDITION: NOW AVAILABLE

⁂

Works Published:

Down To The Contrary---Vortigern & Clatteras. Once Upon A Catacomb---An Analysis of Hirengamarth The Rise of Treasures In Relation To Premillennial Narrative Poems--Alexandre Bumgarian

Sparring: Vengeance, Reconciled_Michael Messner-

Vital Vigils_Michael Messner-André Castaigne

I canst Merry Bards_Evola-

Crystal Tower_Harold Lasswell-The Walls-Lenin-Boris Orlov

SkyBurks_Carl Fischly-Music For Five Voices: 'Rebic'

⁂

So, for the sake of other beings, I shall live a life w/o critical reflections, philosophy, or considerations beyond a universal ritualistic examination of time and space. I cannot deny it, or wish it away. I can call it as I see it. To utter that you are merely working for the greater good of humanity is as worthless as an unquestioning genocidal salute. So, now the duties of personal effort shall keep me driven by intense feelings of self-importance and superiority, rather than a mighty desire to soar like a sparrow into outer space. There shall be no need to think beyond all other creatures in order to move toward a higher realm of experience. Whatever.  'So, for the sake of other beings, I shall live a life w/o critical reflections, philosophy, or considerations beyond a universal ritualistic examination of time and space.' I cannot deny it, or wish it away. I can call it as I see it.

Ty, the longest living being in this realm is constantly moving and changing. He has a knack for being in the right place at the right time, and his sense of smell is amazing. I am not denying this. I also have a gift that many in my realm do not possess, but I am not blaming it for my situation either. The title of 'the girl who wields power,' may sound powerful to some, but that's only because they've never known anything different. I know what it feels like to be powerless and I cannot stand it, therefore I take what limited power I have to protect myself and those around me. The girl who wields power; the unicorn-back rider––the bringer of the event horizon. Then you have the girl w/o power who, because of that lack, is constantly trying to find a way to regain what she has lost. I am sure you can understand the reason for my feelings on this (See Freud, Lacan, et al). You are only human and this is your fate. You were born into it; all of us were.'A little discouraged by how his words didn't seem to be registering w/ her at all, he lowered his voice so that it carried a warning in it. 'I see no point'

I imagine therefore, given the record, that I live in a world, in what I may call––a world created by me.

I feel compelled to torture myself, or, rather, save myself, but if I were to write the story of my life, in the first person, it would be the novel. That is why I un-name myself to feel, but that is not my internal dialog––that is the intrusive idea of the mind prison that always intervenes. Even so, to write the story...to write––would still be to not write. It would be to tell a story. I don't know how to stop the feeling, for my ideas are no less than the cacophony of the supernova that annihilated the galaxy that once was.

I think it is time I departed. The residual oxygen is not sufficient; the process has activated something, prohibiting one's rehabilitation. My breath is thin and shaky. I am composing the hallucination––I hear the quorum of voices; they used to be there, but they must have been absorbed into my subconscious. If they were ever there, and I am sure they were; I am sure now.

Ty, his, and my obsession is w/ the completion of the novel. Concurrent explosions, pixel imperfect rainbow melts open, we both fall in, jump out of, give away pieces of ourself to, takeaway pieces of ourself from, find meaning purpose and life and death and lose the will to do anything meaningful, drained and filled and poured out and gulped. Whoa ! w/in the frame, there is the bouncing refractory spew of opalescent pearlescent iridescence, and the black-(w)hole waits.

The discovery of what we are here to do in this realm is as simple as asking yourself and waiting for the answer to arise. Not many wait patiently enuf for this. Din in the Mind Prism. Coff he mase car become indeed. A large stone tablet––for this is the most durable form of storage, (the ancients knew this)––has inscribed upon it the laws. The lawmakers are the G-ds of this reality. The law is more than a set of guidelines. The law exists in a superposition; her hand ultimately fulcrums the duality of matter and spiritus. The sprite therefore becomes the digireal expression of ‘selfhood’. Bound to the same laws yet free of corpo-reality. The TBC, and by extension, Ty, were pioneers of this avenue.

His first clue was just that. And full awareness was present insothir. The medium of the film gave rise to the initial conflation. They predicted that it would eventually, casualties aside, make a space for (usher forth) the immortal age.

⁂

i ty 2 whyte, now i typ

x po zay:

––what (if not simply poetry) does the idea of ‘anti-prose’ mean to u

––punctuation w/ mind to prose, first scrambled. thing words that comes The but the and is normal

––that might be the most beautifully crafted text in history

––u don’t realise it yet, but while im making the ngan, ur learning the code that will enable me to do so one day.

––Meanwhile, if I ever made one it would be a 100 page schizo drug trip. One that somehow feels both nihilistic and like the most meaningful thing you’ve ever read. One which blurs the lines between fantasy, insanity, and autobiography

––Where you’re never quite sure if it’s just a novel about navigating college or traveling to Agartha

––Where people debate if it’s apolitical or a political manifesto in novel form

––Where, when you check the reviews it’s exclusively 5 star or 1 star split 50/50. Nothing whatsoever in between

––then theres mine: a giganovel that spans a millenia. diving into not only the background of characters but their family history, the psychological, socioeconomic, and biological makeup of at least half a dozen different main characters. so esoterically detailed and long that it somehow takes longer to read than the time i spent writing it (my entire life).

Not 2b

One Christmas season, I wrote a sonnet

Her subtext got lost in hot iron

Which everyone misunderstands.

he cried all night because

he thinks himself so

deep

so

ideative

so

incomprehensible

so

even tho she was w/ him

it’s everyone else’s fault.

⁂

Pastel rainbow watermelon whose exterior is thick and hard has a translucent interior so deeply red Ty mistakes it for real ruby. When it doesn't break his teeth he is eager to enjoy its unique flavor. Which is what? Describe it more.

Well now, it looks like differentiation is once again required, to that end Ty prescribed a set of rules that he might live a life worth living. The first rule, by which he eternally abides is the following:

don't put restrictions on yourself

'Ah yes,' Ty sighs to myself, 'how delightfully paradoxical.' And thus, I decided that I would need several dozen more rules and restrictions just as impossibly devious as the first. But what comes naturally at first, I discovered, does not so naturally return upon further inquiry. It seems, at least w/ me, that there is some sort of disconnect whereby my initial inclinations towards something first seem brilliant, then hideously idiotic, and at last moderately interesting yet underdeveloped. If only I didn't lack the patience and wherew/Al to complete my meaning. awk consider revising.

⁂

Ty sits alone in a room filled w/ others. Each world––riddled w/ neurosis––fritters away the hours until the grand release. Hair twirling, usless Google searching, Instragraming, cross-wording––other homework assignements, sips of water, sniffles, and even those paying attention: all distracted by one thing or another. The voice of reason calls out into this void, his words no longer his own (if they were his to begin w/ ?) impinge rhythmicly on the drum of understanding... continually beating to its own heart. A glance in my direction here and there. Eyes wander. Ice yonder. Snow falls outside. The spirit of Karl Marx revived. Some masks stay affixed w/ elastic bands, others stay w/o them, others are nearly invisible, and some have been on for centuries. The voice itself is distracted; a bisection of his frontal cortex reveals that at this moment, he is thinking about a core childhood memory as he muses on a quote from his late friend. Clicker, tapper, scruffler, gone. At once a something, at another none. I watch and wait and sit and stare. This thing I do I cannot bear. I can see the world melting out the window. I can see the world melting out the window. I can see the world melting out the window. I possess the ability to––but no, it's not a an ability I posses, it has merely been granted to me. This treasure has been bestowed upon me, w/o my asking. In all its faults, (how truly special to note that a sense, which is the only means of determining meaning, is faulty), still allows me... but allows isn't right either for I do not ask its permission. It merely occurs. Wordless being, yet words be in great numbers. Kaz asked me once about those. Numbers, I mean. Being as they work w/ them all day I understand the impetus what begot the curiosity. One cannot really understand something unless one has the will to. So we shared our ideas until, eventually a time arrived at which we no longer seemed to be at odds w/ each other. But even then, it was impossible to be sure. Photons impinge too, but that isn't the overall message here; theirs is a dualistic existence, for the purpose of his book. Collapsing only into the part I claim to see when released out for all to observe and take note. The soaking in of the message is the message of the wanderer whose will doth posses the strength of wordless wordiness, whose vapid vocabulary spills from page unto spurious page... the ____ which evades his every glance; lurking at the edges of his vision peering over shoulder tugging at the tendons of his hand. The two entities are the great Allocators. They usher in the end of the Sun, the era of One––the reign of None. Silver rain drop quickly fall, the message is here: the ritual must begin. Grab your second graven image, this icon is your defence. The ritual has her rites, and many and many more.

Totally-not-what-you're-thinking-isms happening on one half of the room, while the other half flourishes and the gives rise to a good. The middle mostly unoccupied; so few who dislike engaging. The knowledge of good and of evil comes at great a price: but if the misery of the masses is this––I'll gladly stand aside. So that this is where Ty sitteth now, not at the right nor at the left. But alone and surrounded by all: a failure bound in fortune.

Such folly so as to think these unbidden words constitute enuf.

Once, everthing dripped, oozed, exuded meaning. It was all I could do back then to prevent myself from ending my map, for keeps. Each day I was born again, a new body to inhabit and a new time to make myself do whatever I wanted. Curious to think this soul should progressively inhabit older forms. w/ each incarnation, the fluidity of meaning slips away, erelong I find new meaning takes his place. She is familiar and kind, understated yet bold, unaware yet ideative. This liquid-state memory relinquishes plasticity, elasticity, and this oozing meaning in exchange for logos. And, through the words the reality is constructed.

Why else––when faced w/ a difficult decision might one come to the conclusion on one choice versus another––do we choose Coca-Cola, or Amazon, or Google. The ubiquity of them makes their candidacy unimpeachable; ipso facto.

⁂

A sepal of collars, buttons, zippers blossom and extend at the neck–– draping petals of yellow and of orange... of blue, purple, green, and pink.

In latter days, the sun blazed down upon the revelry, casting a prismatic glow over the festivities. A sea of brightly colored streamers and balloons festooned the space, each hue more vibrant than the last. The guests, dressed in every shade of the rainbow, laff'd and danced to the pulsing beats of the DJ. At the center of it all was Ty, a veritable prince among his subjects. The celebration seemed to be a manifestation of his very essence, wild and free and bursting w/ life.

As the night wore on, the partygoers grew more and more frenzied, caught up in the heady energy of the event. Glasses clinked and bodies writhed in a dizzying blur of color. And thru it all, Ty shone like a beacon, his infectious grin beckoning all to join in the fun.

⁂

Kaz: I don’t know how we can do it. That Monday, I know that we’re all supposed to be back to working on the project. Can’t lie, it’s not gonna be easy now..

Al: Kaz, I know it seems like everything is falling apart right now, but trust me, this is all part of the process. The struggles and hardships we've faced only make our project stronger and more meaningful. We may not be finished yet, but I have no doubt that the end result will be worth all the effort.

I: He’s right. The EmPi isn’t complete yet, but I know that what we’re working towards will only reach its fullest potential if we continue to work together.

Kaz: ...

Ur: Indeed, in this act lies goodness. The purpose, once humble, now ascends, made grand by past's imprint. Thus, our toil glistens w/ profound meaning.

Kaz: I know it. Yet I still w/draw. I am still trying to come into something more.

Kaz:

I feel so strongly at times when all I have known

seems to be wrenched from its place and thrown

into the abyss, the unknown, and what I can see

shows itself as an entity of neutrality––

should it come to pass

should I too, at last

should anyone hear my cry

should they care to see my eye

should it fracture and into a thousand parts

should it mend this broken heart

should the project evolve and grow

should it crash and fall bel––

Al: You should stop. Such a phony attempt to give a topic w/ such deep themes this pathetic treatment. Leave the poetry to the poets.

Kaz: You really don't get it, and I suppose no one does. But the project simply cannot exist when the impetus for its inception no longer ripples thru us... no longer permeates us.

Ur: Why do you think it does not ? The mere existence of the project is proof enuf that the ripples continue to reverberate. And your inability to see this shows that we're still exactly where I want us all to be. What you just said is critical to conveying the message at hand.

I: Don't be so sure. Kaz may have a point. After all, you weren't even sure this was where you wanted us to be right now. At our last meeting you couldn't decide on a location for this one. Over the last few weeks, the location continued to shift. The wax-sealed letters came almost daily, each w/ instructions for a new place. This was understandable at first, given the circumstances. But the location we settled on, I must say, leaves me a bit worried.

Ur: And what is so worrisome about this location ?

I: It lacks proper introduction, it lacks scene direction, setting, and purpose. you still haven't disclosed to anyone exactly what is going on and your precious mystery box is so important to you that I reckon we won't get any clear answers.

Al: If it's clear answers you want, why don’t you just ask Ty.

Kaz: In perfect form tonight I see, Al.

⁂

Ty: that one amazing song you heard in a café––you didn't know what it was called but you knew you liked it. and you enjoyed the moment in the moment. the distorted vocals, like breathing into a fan, vibrating and oscillating. you felt between the laughter, between the grinding, between the click of keys, between the rustling of papers, between the conversations. that song was everything for a moment, theau you didn't even know the name. and maybe if you just went up to the front and asked what the song was you could have found its name. you could have relived that experience again and again. maybe it would become your most listened to song ever. but it wouldn't be the same anymore. it wouldn't even be the same song. where is the song when you know every lyric ? when you can hear each layer ?

⁂

The blank canvas imprints itself onto our work. Where we see opportunity and freedom there is nothing but constraints and chains. I am tied to a stick. The stick is in the water. There is a pain in my left ear. Ty focuses on the pain in his left ear. In the morning it is particularly dreadful. He wakes up w/ a feeling of fullness in it; this feeling presents itself in his conscious such that it tricks him into believing the fullness might be relieved if he turns over and lets his left sinus drain into his right. This is not the case. It's the joint he thinks. It's actually God. The pain in his ear has become its own little deity. A reminder of imperfection which delivers his salvation. Ty/I find(s) that he remains ever falling inward. Into the ear. The pain consumes his day and when he shifts his jaw back and forth it feels as thohis jaw might explode or fly off its hinges at any moment. the crinkling sound it makes, he's pretty sure, is a result of TMJ but he cannot be sure. And anyway he doesn't want to be sure because he's able to make his own little ritual out of it. It has become sacred, the jaw. And when it finally pops (which it used to do frequently but hasn't for weeks now) it's bound to be so relieving and wholly satisfying that he'll never again feel the need to move his jaw that silly way––the way w/ the little wiggle back and forth and the slow opening w/ immense tension and the same when closing. But of course it won't and he will and it will. And the cycle will begin again. He sacrifices himself each day to his pain believing that it will have mercy on him eventually.

Each day he repents his sins and tries to get past his shortcomings. They are plentiful, and his energy is limited. He finds, sometimes, that he just doesn't have the energy to make something new. His perception (and therefore my perception) of newness is both skewed, and not. It is insofar as his actions are those of someone who doesn't understand the nuances of remixing, the truth of synthesis. He has been someone who has had to learn for himself that there is nothing new under the Sun. He still doesn't believe it, and neither do I. Becuase everything is new. And each day is a gift, each second is precious and so when he starts crying at the pain each night and considers, van gogh style, to just up and cut off the ear and the jaw and the whole damn head it isn't because there isn't anything new or because he is destined to be just like someone else or just like this thing or act like that or be who someone wants or doesn't want. It's just that he's realized that once you've entered into the conversation you become intrinsically inseparable from it, you become indoctrinated by it, you become obsessed w/ it and the meaning which drips from it and yet still eludes you, and him, and me starts to take on that quality. and when you finally feel as thoyou're there, ____ is there, and that's it––all else is gone, they're gone, you're gone, and the feeling is gone too. Insothir aliont qed ist. Dej patrion pultolcosque.

IT'S EMPTY. THE WHOLE THING. INFINITE NOTHINGNESS. SUBSTANCELESS EVERYTHING. HOLLOW AND EMPTY. INTRINSICALLY INERT. INERTIAL IMPACT. THIS IS NOTHING NEW AND NEW NOTHINGNESS. A BLACK OBSIDIAN ROOM, A BOX W/ NO EXISTS. A BOX IN THE MIDDLE BUT IT CANNOT BE OPENED. FEEL ITS ENERGY.

'What good would it even do to mention the hundreds of times I've seen someone decapitated, shot to death, stabbed, run over by a forklift, set on fire while bystanders just watch. Their flesh is falling off their body in front of them and no one does anything. Neither could I. That base impulse to be a mere witness to an horrific death. To a death where a woman tries to wail for help but her lungs are so eviscerated by who-knows-what that she just opens her mouth, and I'm not sure if its because she's screaming for help at this point or if it's just some sort of reaction, y'know. like brain chemicals just doing their thing to try to escape death.'

'It's all just brain chemicals doing their thing'

'Right, but y'know what I mean. And what does it mean to bear witness to that w/ the same sort of attention birthed of being mindful ? I am aware of my feelings and emotions and my breathing. I am aware of the pain in my leg. I am aware and mindful of the dying woman in front of me, who I am powerless to help. I could watch her die a thousand times and yet still be unable to assist. And I probably will watch her die at least twice.'

'I'm not exactly sure what you mean. Unless you're suggesting something beyond the merely physical and scientific.'

'And anyway, the point was that it wouldn't do any good to mention it.'

⁂

(Yes)t’day, Ty is embodied by me. Tho, assuredness is/was not guaranteed on that matter––for it could be Kaz? Since, amidst the drone, which itself is/was broken by eruptions of stuttering staccato synths, speech swirls, smoke whirls, (cute girls), and I feel myself w/in: scared ↔ strengthened. Tattooed walls box us in, make us free. Painted skin bleeds us dry, chains us down. If beauty were beauty were beaty were dead-en(e)d by me u’d see the pranciful, fanciful, dejected, trodden but not down, invert the paradigm. Convert

Back again, sorry, it was LOST somewhere in this mess. Cans strewn about the room, exposed wires do festoon, ashéd floors, blanket doors, holes punched into the walls. Chairs fall apart, but in the heart, you’re here more than you’ve been elsewhere at all. 8/2 Toying w/ your EGO. Why is nobody robbing churches? Copaganda. OTHR 1. LIVE LAUGH L*** ♥

This

is a

liminal

space

Where do emotions fit into this? The agony of pure discomfort soothes my mind. Her gaze; rubs my back w/ a hand; disembodied plans; an offer to go 'home.' Extinction of the spirit. (Imagine that) And but so, w/in contrast ____ is revealed.

⁂

Wow! You've fallen for her, haven't you. You weren't supposed to fall for her. When you grow attached it all changes. Don't you remember the premise ? Nothing could've been simpler. There's so many ideas that goes into it now. The window is fleeting and you're still lingering on the idea. Remember that everything is a product of its circumstances. The game has changed. The rules are different. Watch it implode and surrender to how it changes. She is swirling in a new array of color and shades and shapes. It takes on a new form and the vision you possessed before can no longer be. It's over. The hypertextual dream has moved beyond the horizon. She sleeps w/ the Sun. You're chasing it, still. Still you follow the ____. I'm so sorry, it's not your fault. (It's your fault, tho, think about it, imagine if you had worked harder and faster and captured the real ____ from that time period, imagine what it may have brought you. Instead, the snow settles over it. The rain falls down. The leaves crumble and rot. The data too. It's time for the parade. You've put it off long enuf and now there is nothing left. Watch how beautiful, if only you let it.

Each float gently glides thru the air.

He wanted to find a niche. In the midst of roaring waves and shifting sands of an unconventional path, he felt that he never would. And so carved one out for himself.

⁂

i feel like talking on the phone almost feels like an action where you're constantly trying to get somewhere. something about the medium necessitates some sort of end goal. it is not a space for lingering. it is a space for doing and it puts me on edge. it is a liminal space, perhaps ? or at least one that is unfriendly to hanging out. it necessitates function. it craves goals. as he and i talked i feel like i'm trying to entertain him as i sit in my closet. it's an act like which i want to talk about more in the book. that too. the wanting to talk. sitting in a closet and forgetting who i am as my voice echoes around the house. the voice which is a nuisance to my sleeping neighbours beyond the thin walls but is a voice of caring warmth to the person across the country despite the electronic medium it is disassembled into before being reconverted back to an analogue noise. that thing, had warmth in it. how bizarre.

⁂

i've been having this idea about the impossibility of recapturing the feeling that spawned this book and how new circumstances must by necessity take it in a new direction. This book cannot exist because i(t) never did. that doesn't quite get at my meaning, but the idea it gets at is that there's no ultimate idea to get at in the first place. there is no infinite reaching toward an unattainable ideal. there is only the reaching. when this is recognized everything else shall follow. yet there is still that lingering worry: how has my reality shifted and altered my vision of it? In other words, what is it that i don't get if not that ideal? There is something? it's not necessitated, methinks, but it is sufficed. so, what i'm not getting at (and therefore getting at) is the sense in which the adaptation itself is the plot. how does the non-existent plot adapt itself into plot? it must not. and because of this i find myself wondering where i am. i don't think i'm really writing what i wanted to write. there's this sense in which i've been told that "words don't suffice." A learned man (of course) once told me that every attempt to describe the ideas arising in his mind in words will inevitably fall short. short of what? what the idea was? you must have an awful lot of confidence in your ideas. there's this sense in which we are taught to work to achieve adequate abilities to describe ourselves through our words, but if it is acknowledged at the outset this is an impossibility, then perhaps this is the wrong goal. Why strive to adequacy when the ends are already known. Rather we strive towards the unknown. How is it that within these accursed ideas, whose character evokes sadness w/in can appear so optimistic w/o? Well, that's just it. It is because it is w/o that it is w/o that quality w/in. This is the trick which is played for keeps.

if i actually anticipated that i might unlock (the box) i’ve fooled myself. how bemusing. i could keep trying to explain the difference between the world and the world but i would only confuse us/them further. Inasmuch as we see the brutality of a mother killed before her toddler’s eyes––eyes which do not yet weep, for they yet lack “understanding” to parse what has occurred. Yet more so the world cries in inappropriate unison; tho the world’s tears apart (that is, separately) are louder and more knowledgeable than the child’s, the child’s reaction––whatever it may be after––in that instant moment of precious confusion eats infinity.

This shouldn’t be construed universally, rather the “opposite” it is to be construed multiversally. (for how foolish to think many to be the opposite of one. why not none? why not two?) What this means is not only as simple as understanding it, but also oversitting/oversighting/over-citing/o-verse-izing it. Here, the idea prescribed (by not-me, explicitly) is non-executable, for then it would die.

CAUTION: The text in this section has been colored.

⁂

le Contre

Ty existed in a location once. He coexisted in this space w/ The Visitor. The two of them trekked upon a journey. The exchange began simply:

'Hello, Ty,' The Visitor said, 'Good day.' He meant it.

Ty did a half bow gesture while pulling his hands apart, fingers spread. The gesture looked grotesquely like a man contorting his fingers to marionette a doll. He, (Ty), was sure he’d seen this gesture before somewhere. He was not sure, however, that this sort of gesture was appropriate for this moment and this exchange, which for some reason, for Ty, felt like it had been building up for a long time. Ty wondered if it actually had been building up, or if he had just ideated it had been building up and just ideated that idea to convince [himself] that it was so. The gesture was sort of a bring-it-on type thing and for a moment he was worried that it might seem aggressive, and maybe that’s where this sense of tension was coming from. The gesture began w/ taking one step forward, and placing the stepping foot on the outside of the other foot. One his legs were crossed, he did this sort of plié move while pulling his arms apart in such a way that by the end of the gesture they were in a shrugging position. Once he had realized this was sort of a ballet-type movement Ty lost his concern that it was aggressive and began to worry that instead it was overtly feminine and made him seem weak. or gay. Then he felt bad that he was worried about being perceived as feminine or gay, because that would mean he had some sort of implicit bias or prejudice about those things. He hadn’t usually been concerned w/ such things, as his mode of dress in this moment, like during this occurrence, might suggest: he wore pants that almost looked like a skirt from the back, but from the front (w/ legs together) just looked like normal black pants, he had a crop top hoodie on over that and a faint hint of yesterday’s eyeliner stained his waterline. But so then the gesture was over in an instant and The Visitor moved on to talking about the matter. Ty helpless watched his own mind replay it again and again as The Visitor began to speak.

Thus, The interaction began simply. The interaction began again. They wandered into the place where the shadows could roam free and the people at the corners could easily reminisce on that which was germane to their intellectual sensibilities. Ty, (who, I ?) heard these words first. The first words, which, if firstness is to be mentioned, it must also be said, or it is good to make note of, of the problematic nature of the concept of firstness. Tho this is not new, it is something which is often overlooked and in this instance the beginning is actually the most important facet of our conversation, mine and The Visitor's. because, as i recall, I actually wasn't listening. insothir, the introduction lingered and replayed. and as the conversation began, i had not. the page had been flipped before i had gotten to the bottom. try to remember what it's like to do anything. i remembered at this moment when he was asking me my name and we were having this conversation, i remembered thinking one time about a song i had been listening to when it struck me that everything was like something else, (and thus like nothing). the only way by which we know anything else is thru relative comparison. in other words, (which illustrates my point exactly) the perception box which we create for each encounter borrows already known parameters from previous boxes to help w/ the sorting process. That's why when The Visitor and I got around to talking about our means of 'making a living' he (or maybe it was me) said that that which constitutes the making of one's living is not actually the direct means of acquiring secondary motivators. the life was made, as it were, thru enrichment. on this we agreed. tho, i was dubious of how long this agreement would last. the docket was full of the sorts of topics which in french was referred to as 'le contre', at least from my best memory. these were a series of topics (or, in the Old Tongue 'quei') which were inimitable, and were not new to either of them or to others. it was custom, in this realm begin and end all conversations in this way. this was the only way to go about anything and from inside these topics everything was discussed. there was no need to talk about their day, their individual lives, their personal desires, by reaching a deeper understanding of 'le contre' they understood themselves. and so it continued.

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Sync-inck

And they began w/ a conversation about the world of speciality, expensive, luxury items. The Visitor explained how his utterly explosive, unimaginable large breadth of information acquired through experience allowed him to cultive an appreciation for the finest things in life. the shiniest, smoothest, orbs. The Region produced the best, he had said. And he knew this because he had taken the sync-inck over to it some time ago. it was, according to him, an unforgettable experience. the merging aspect of it, which was custom of all sync-incks, generated such a powerful syncing/sinking experience he had claimed. he tried to differentiate the two, t(i)y recall, one joining of his experience w/ the unlisted experience, ie, the one that was part of The Inside, from which he had boarded the Sync-inck, but the rate of descention was so rapid that it is was indistinguishable from the other componenent. he said that now he had explained it I would be helpless but to notice it everywhere i went. in this way he had essentially both cursed me, blessed me, and given me a disease, and its own cure. I spent some time reflecting on how this, in and of itself, was its own circular sort of inclination toward the S(y/i)nk. (tkk ink-well)

And I ideated for some time that this might simply be a case of the Baader-Meinhoff illusion. I was convinced, especially because it was something I had just learned about, so it was all the more convincing that this was the exact thing that was causing the thing w/ the sensation The Visitor described. And so throughout the rest of our conversation, my awareness heightened. I intimated this knowledge and it tinted the whole of our conversation.

(tkk, merge this w/ the retrocausality, ie, make the stuff about the elements of le contre which they dive into appear before and after they are explicitly discussed. this could signify that either The Visitor had a pre-arranged the whole conversation before it had taken place, and indeed he might have even predecited how ty would respond (also also integrate this paragraph into the conversation somehow as well, to make sure that there is no breaking of the fourth wall. alternatively, leave this part in to break the fourth wall all the more and suggest that writing is never a finished process but something that is constantly evolving and growing)).

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Energy Events

And the whole of all the history could be explained in terms of energy, The Visitor claimed. He continued to say that theoretically if given enough energy, like not just a lot but a near infinite amount, it would be possible to replicate all of these energy events in the exact same way as the first time. There were certain energy events which, he claimed, were able to transmute the essence of Being into energy which could be utilized for great gain. He insinuated that this was somehow on the horizon.

And I tried to suggest to him that there was no way in which he could safely purport to do know this. The Convergence re the S(y/i)nc would initiate a cascading event. I warned him, again and again i tried to make it as crystal clear as possible. I gave the analogy of a cloud, and how there are many ways in which a cloud might come into being, nearly infinite factor which we have defined and created repeatable methods to detect its emergence, but once a cloud formed and became visible to the naked third eye, there was no denying that it was. I mentioned that Kaz had been doing extensive research into this topic and that before any steps were taken toward this goal, they must be consulted. Their understanding of the situation involved many published works, in all three realms: past, present, future.

And The Visitor, who didn't do that sort of thing so simple as to flat out refuse my request, placated me. He attempt to quell my worries, but i saw thru the façade. He was certain that there was nothing to worry about. But because i was so concerned that our visions differed so much, not just in end goal terms but also in the journey. ie, I beleived there was a fundamental flaw w/ the program that The Visitor just wasn't seeing.

I was informed or rather, information was passed to me which revealed

This would manifest itself in a new sort of contention between the two of us.

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Desire

And this contention between us was actually, as all things of this nature are, a conflict of desire. It was the crossing incompatibility of my track oriented mind which was, as far as i knew, totally different than his multiplicitous means of approaching the means. he believed, as so many do these days that the result was based in a chronology; which is to say he ideated that there existed a series of steps one might take in order to get somewhere. i knew––insothir these steps to be repeated they must be repeatable––better. and this was something i tried to relay to him.

his response indicated that we disagreed somewhere. thus a spurious debate was spurred on, one in which the argument took on the nature of the fantastical which inspired by the fact that it was. Meaning, that we felt is was necessary to pinpoint the contention and in our own terms try to represent the position of the other, the Object as our own personal Subject(ive) argument and display it to the fullest capacity it might, or, better phrasedly to take it at its best. We got caught up in a definitional and semantic circularity, the top of which was itself another sort of insipid mini circular insanity: each loop (d)evolving further into a realm of sublimation. I figured it was only a matter of time before we would eventually come across themeans of dicusssing the versus multiplicity which, from what i knew, was that which we understood as the cross-inter-relativsism (here i try to, in my best approximation commemsurate tell as show) and the direct. Which, perversely, is the least in actually divulging the flesh content on which the Spyrit feeds.

And well, but so then, i tried to explain my vision my visoon and how it was actually in great conflict w/ the vision which The Visitor had. theau i didn't know how or why, and i knew that my sharing this information would (and here i reveal a fear so profound that (it would)) change my comprehension of the thing. how so too then to progress, it seems to me that this was something i could only do inwardly. it actually is no surpirse then that the way i was finally able to convey this message to The Visitor was thru a rather rather than an explicit. and when neither of us understood this we knew that we had in fact begun to make progress toward something. or at least, i felt i did, because his was such that in achieving a goal it was never acheived, and mine was such that the goal itself was a mirage which i propagated in the garden. dans le jardin, as 'twere.

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The (W)hole

And in the moment when we began to discuss the laws which governed the means of my inability to confidently say anything, The Visitor asked me to bequeath a syrup-ticious exposition unto him, and when i beseeched thee for my numbers upon his hearse, he readily and verily spoke to me.

I knew the whole from the hole. The fulness and the emptiness. and he spoke to me the words in the New Tongue 'wan li ale. ale li wan. ale li ala.'

And when Ty heard them, their weight bore down on him and the whipping vine-tail lines of his mind flailed about in an effort to remove the words. Their message had already sunk in and when ty desired to remove it, it was necessary that he think about what it meant to remove it to remove it and it could not be removed. He reflected back, all the way back to the time when he knew what he wanted. When he had his fuzzy vision for the future, and now he realizes this fuzziness was clearer than the brightest moment of clarity he's ever experienced. At least at that time he actually accepted it. He was ready for the implications of the fuzziness and wanted to embrace it. Now the clarity felt wrong, and it birthed something like a sense of confusion; to the extent that it was as if there was a button in his mind which he had pressed and could not unpress. The button, it seems, had been capable of something he himself had not been. And so he watched, from almost like a third person perspective and tried to grasp the fulness of his work.

And He saw the project in terms of the (w)hole, which meant that he grappled w/ thousands of small moments. the fuzziness, in trying to clarify it, had become unimaginably large, and now he felt this sense of trying to manage it all. he knew what fell at the center of it all and how its would impact the rest of the things which needed to get done. but he couldn't fully grasp the grasping of the thing; which is to say that he couldn't visualise himself doing the thing and thus failed to do it. He had to do so instead thru the medium of pre-semiotic-visualization techniques. Which would send them thru the first screen and lead them into the next topic.

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The Green

And the first screen was that of the natural world. Ty and the Visitor were keenly aware of its presence; The Visitor was, perhaps, more so. This field, existed all around us. In permeated our corporeal incarnations. We were the continual upward growth, supported in our efforts by the magistrate of the highest order.

And The Visitor spoke of terminology Ty had not yet catalogued. His (The Visitor's) incantations opened closed doors, but did not yet open the locked doors. Those remained locked. The Visitor could not provide that for Ty explicitly.

And Ty felt his mind fold into itself, and the his words started to lose their original meanings. This filter field, which he had existed in his whole life was comfortable and familiar up until this moment. He knew, upon looking at any object, what it was. Its currency eluded him. No money could buy him the understanding. He began to sink into the fluidity of reality began to sink into him.

There was a brief consideration of how this field had permeated the EmPi Project, Ty reflected on the how little sense it had all made… from the start until now and forever, he figured. It would leave him, or rather he would, and there would be no currency to behold. Past passed. He lived in it. It seemed that The Visitor

And the upward motion continued. There, at the top of it all, a small orb exists. It is the dot of the lowercase 'i'. This infinitesimal sphere bore infinite possibilities.

And Ty wants them all

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The Magenta

Or so he had.

And at a certain point, the spire which the two had built together reached its apex. Ty's failed to articulate just why it had stopped when it did; but it no longer was and so he fell back into his mind and considered things from a point w/o signs. This was pure ideation, and before now it had been impossible for him. A time exists (Ty knew this now) when all Beings think this way, but whether it was a past or future time he could not be sure.

And The Visitor explicated the change which occurred presently. His momentary (momentary, because of the precision required at this jucnture, which is to say that the words were a resultant explanation (i use this word carefully) for and of the ideas which ty could only have appreciated in and as this moment, that is to say: any other words other than the exact ones said by The Visitor at this moment in the way The Visitor said them would not and could not produce the same effect on anyone in the same way again or even on Ty at any other moment than this one, this moment when Ty made cynosure of himself) words depicted the upward motion as a scaffolding, a scaffolding of millions tiny pieces which iterated upon themselves and give birth to mirror copies of themselves (only not exactly) and the small changes allowed them to increase their et into the Beyond realm.

And right then the blossom burst open where once the orb-bulb lied. Her petals shot out like fire, and they fell w/ the grace of feathers, each one brilliant in color. The color which Ty had feared for so long. The flower soaked in the fullness of the light which shone upon it.

And shade was cast on all the spires below. It fell into darkness in the name of the carnation which superseded it.

{The Event Horizon}

And Ty was adamant there be a total dispelling of any secrecy. He demanded The Visitor make everything known. Ty insisted this was the way to ensure that things would go smoothly, he wanted people to think that there was no way anything was being kept from the people of the land. Ty's naïveté in this matter was perhaps his greatest quality in this matter. Because he knew not the depth nor the gravity nor the intensity that had come w/ this conversation he could not––and, what more is that he lacked any sense about him to describe the actual phenomenology of the meeting, that is to say the physical apparation of the thing, its visual nature––anticipate its consequences. So Ty requested that The Visitor might do him the courtesy of upholding one of Ty's most closely held beliefs.

Tho remiss to use the word belief, this was one instance where it felt warranted, for it (the belief) had guided the route of his life.

Ty wanted the Visitor to speak such that the barrier between his words and the objects of their intention might dissolve that all may come to know the same. The Visitor happily obliged.

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Locksmithy & Khafre

Thus the key was produced, and Ty found that it was already in his pocket, and that this key he had had had had the same symbol on it as the box in the package in the mail in his lobby in the beginning of the book. He remembered (yet he himself also did not) pulling the small wooden box, w/ near pitch black varnish, out of the package. The box did not glisten, it did not reflect any light, that Ty could see. The box’s blackness hypnotized Ty, and as he kept turning it in his hands he tried to make sure it wasn’t just a hole in reality––a glitch in the world. He kept expecting it to vanish at any moment, or to absorb him into it. The box had no distinguishing marks or scratches. Sometimes the box had a keyhole on one side. He was certain the box only had six sides, but when he would turn it it seemed as if there more sides than that.

He would turn the box once to the right and then back left and the keyhole would be gone. He would have to manipulate the box w/ up-turns, down-turns, left, and right before it would return. The keyhole was tiny and pinhole shaped and it sat at the center of a glowing pure white design/symbol which Ty would stare at for minutes at a time.

It circular and triangular, w/ both flowing rounded lines and highly angular and sharp points. It swirled into itself like a fractal and was perfectly asymmetrically symmetrical. It looked as theau it had originated from Egyption hieroglyphs. The design was also simple, he felt like when he looked away from it, he should have been able to recreate it w/ a magic marker in less than five seconds. But when he would try to draw it, it never looked quite right. In looking at the symbol he learned that each second he spent analyzing it he grew increasingly, painfully bored. Like if he continued to look at it any longer he might even fall asleep from boredom. The symbol was so banal and mundane it, it didn’t deserve more than a seconds ideation, yet its mystique continually kept his attention.

Then he would turn the box and lose the design again. He would spent minutes searching for it again. Only this time, now, in this moment, w/ The Visitor next to him, Ty :: Khafre. He actually had the key, and the key felt magnetically attracted to the box. The Visitor warned Ty not to yet open the box before they had finished le Contre.

⁂

wan li ale / ale li wan / ale li ala

Tkk

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Esoterrorism

tkk

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The ____

⁂

The Shift

(1) An intrinsically different type of quei which:

1  Varies stylistic inscription.

2  Uses a different tone.

3 The speakers differently posture themselves in any of the following ways:

1  The straightening of the spine, such as to increase awareness or height

2  The movement of the chin either up such as to give off an air of confident, or down and back to accentuate the definition of the jawline

3  The movement of the eyes––especially when there is increased eye contact.

(2) The shift has occurred when The Visitor:

1 Articulates to Ty that this section is not expressly part of le Contre in the strictest terms.

2  Expounds, clarifying that the final Quei of any discussion of le Contre is bound up in the context of the previous quei such that all of the following apply:

1  The discussion of each quei of le Contre act as logic gates through which the two enter simultaneously, (NB: this means the two speakers cannot proceed until they’ve reached some sort of mutual understanding of each others explanation of each quei)

2  The final quei is different every time le Contre is discussed. Even between the same two people moments after successfully completing an iteration. The appreciable difference will vary.

(3) This Shift is a general term for the last Quei of any le Contre discussion, however, in this instance, 'The Shift' happens to be the title of the shift. This circumstance prompts the following reflection from the two speakers:

1  of Ty: that this seems incredibly strange. The idea that the shift should be self-titled seems highly unlikely.

2  of The Visitor: that it only seems fitting. The idea that the shift should be self-titled seems inevitable.

CONCLUSION

On these quei, which Ty and The Visitor discussed, the lectorat should grant this iteration of le Contre their utmost attention and care.

Respectfully submitted,

Ty [Redacted]

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In A Exits I’m ENTRY. (Under Erasure)

Please, know that in adding yet anOther, ie, this chapter, no new solace will be found. This can only serve to add further discursive incongruence. Try to say something new. No reprise can surprise yourself, can surprise the audience, can surprise sensibilities (none are left because all are right; that is to say that what has been denied for so long is inevitably that which ought to have been regarded w/ reverence). There is so much potential to do something that is so profoundly boring here, and perhaps that’s what has been desired all along, some sort of odd mix of banality yet to somehow prove this intrinsic value. Unfortunately, this idea rests on an unfounded idea that this is not the case already. Imagine if a showing could be performed so as to genuinely put legal concepts in conversation w/ your dwindling cutting edge understanding of English literature (it’s already dead). What is truly unique here is that in being a normal person an abandoning of something is also performed let the words flow because they cannot be found when they have traversed such a path as to concretely be such that sand and wind and rain and dust, the powders being can never be truly seen, amidst the grains to fly is to roped inversely w/ the sky her wings are a pretense. Look at how you write now. It was never your destiny to be something other than what you are now.

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